This Side of Paternal
by ImagineTheMist
Summary: When House's daughter enters his life, how will this affect him and his relationship with those around him--specifically Wilson?
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: Yes, this is a "long-lost daughter" fic, but don't click X. She's not a med school graduate at the age of thirteen, she's not going to omg get along with House immediately, and she's not going to make him love life and start being nice to people. Also, some of you might remember my HP fic but . . . I don't think I'll ever finish it.**

**I don't own House.**

This Side of Paternal

I'm nervous.

I hate the fact that I am, but I am.

I'm sure, in this situation, you would have been nervous too. I mean, it's not like I really want to be here or anything, but . . . Well, sometimes, things don't go the way we plan. Life sucks, and then you die. There's not much else you can do about it--not really. You just learn to live with the hand you're dealt, but you can't fold your cards if you don't like how the game is being played. Life is just a never ending poker game you're forced to play, no matter the cards.

I should probably tell you what's going on.

My mother recently died--and when I say recently, I mean like two weeks ago. It wasn't anything interesting, or epic, or out of the ordinary--it was a car wreck. She's a--well, I mean, she _was_ a waitress. We never really had a lot of money, and my mom always tries--well, tried . . . her hardest to be a good mom; make ends meet and such.

That being said, I was raised in a single parent family. We never had a lot of money and my mother tried hard to meet a guy who could be a good father. She was even married for awhile to a guy named Tom, but that didn't work out. She married him when I was two--I was at their wedding, but I don't remember it--but they divorced when I was six. He didn't beat her up, or do drugs. No, my life really never was all that interesting. He cheated on her and we came home early from visiting my grandma in the hospital, and . . . Well, there isn't much else to say. He was having sex with my mom's former best friend. Other than that, all other men she saw were only brief flings. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

It's just that, for most of my life, it was just me and her--nobody else. Her parents were older when they had her. Her father died of liver failure (he was an alcoholic) and her mother died of a heart attack a few years later. She was an only child. No uncles or aunts; no grandparents.

Which is why I'm standing in my living room with some suitcases and boxes waiting for a man I've never met. My biological father.

When we got in the car wreck, I honestly thought I was going to die, too. The roads were slick; my mother was tired and angry with me. I've flunked out of college so no scholarships will have me, and since I was on financial aid the program I was using won't give me money until I pay off a semester all by myself. Which, coming from a girl who has no job (nobody would hire me; they were either not hiring or needed someone with more experience) and whose mother is a waitress, you can see how that would cause problems.

We'd been arguing during the wreck.

"_Damn it, Jaid! All you needed to do was get a C or above! And now you just expect me to pay off your fucking fines! I did _not_ work my ass off my whole life just for you to throw every opportunity down the toilet!"_

"_I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment!"_

I clench my jaw at the memory. I'm not saying my mother and I didn't get along; we got along as much as any other child with her parent, I guess. It just so happened we were fighting at the time. She said thing she probably didn't mean and I said some things I shouldn't have, too. In fact, I have a problem with keeping my mouth closed.

I can be a flat-out bitch.

"_It's not my fault you used to spread your legs for anything with a pulse! Maybe if I'm such a goddamn burden you should have aborted!"_

I swallow the lump in my throat. You see, my mother was one of those girls that had the world at her feet when she was younger, I hear about it all the time; about how differently her life could've been, had she never gotten pregnant with me. She was in college and she said she had top grades; her teachers loved her, her parents were proud, and all that sort of stuff. She was Christian and raised in a Christian family (she raised me the same way, too) and so she was just generally a great person. Everything her parents wanted and life was going perfect.

Then she went out celebrating her twenty-first birthday. Although she said she knew getting drunk was against her family's beliefs and wishes (it being a sin and all) she decided to try it out with a group of her friends. She was on vacation (it was spring break) and I guess she got a little too drunk. Started flirting with some guy about ten years older than her.

When it comes to my father, my mom never says--said--much. It's not like they actually really knew each other. He was just some memory during an amazing week during Spring Break. A man she spent drinking and partying with because her friends thought he was cool. Alcohol turned into weed and some coke; the next thing my mom knew she was having sex with him. That whole week was a blur of sex and drugs and partying; they exchanged numbers and talked about maybe doing this again sometime.

Mom said she never had any intention of calling him. That after the week was over she felt such an intense amount of guilt for falling down such a rocky, dark path (drugs and sex and all) that she never wanted to see him again and remind herself of what she'd done.

Then she missed her period.

She tried to tell herself it was due to stress.

She was sick at random times during the day; she had odd cravings. She was moody with her friends, exhausted when she should have been alert, and gaining weight--but she just attributed that to eating more. She told me that she knew what was going on, but she thought she could ignore it. That maybe it wouldn't be true.

She missed her second period, and went to the doctor, and . . . well, duh.

She called up my father and told him the news. He told her to abort, and she said that she was planning on it and just wanted to make sure he was okay with her decision. That he had a right to be a part of this decision too.

She never did tell me why she changed her mind.

She told him she had the baby, but that she thought it was best that they never got together. They didn't know or love each other; she had no idea what he did with his life. She said that it was probably best she never seek a relationship with him because he was an obvious partier who did drugs and drank all the time. That he'd mentioned he was an Atheist, and she wanted to raise me a Christian. She just had one week of screwing around; he obviously did it for a lifetime. He wasn't the type of man she wanted to be my father, and so she told him that it was probably best he never show up and confuse me.

He didn't seem to mind.

Every year I'd get an unsigned birthday card. Something stupid and random--like he just plucked it off of a shelf. It was never on my birthday, just in the same week as it, and I never got any presents, but I knew it was from him--my elusive, nameless father.

Well, raising a kid after her family disowned her for having a bastard child (it's okay--they eventually forgave her) basically ruined her life. She always told me that she didn't' regret it, but sometimes I wonder--she had everything going for her, and it was my birth that made it so she dropped out and got a crappy job and had a rocky relationship with her parents.

I kick absently at a box with my books in it. It barely scruffs the floor.

I didn't die in the car wreck, obviously. My mother before the paramedics got there. She was surrounded by glass and blood-covered asphalt, and I crawled over to her. I managed to get away with some bruises and a sprained ankle, but the car had hit her side. She'd been covered in blood. I remember thinking I was going to die, because it doesn't make sense I would get away almost unscathed, and she . . .

I sigh. Will readings and burials and funerals filled the last two weeks, and now I'm off to live with my dad. Somehow the hospital informed him--I guess my mother must've put him down as the emergency contact after her parents died.

It's nice of him to take me in, I guess. I have nowhere else to go, but I'm an adult now so it's not like he's obligated.

There are a few harsh knocks on my door and I suck in a breath. My heart stops beating for a second and my stomach plummets. It's like I'm going to throw up, but I don't.

This is stupid, but I glance at myself in the mirror by the door as I walk to it to make sure I look presentable. I'm tall for a girl (about five foot seven) and thin. I have blond hair that's cut to my jaw line (it's straight) my eyes are vivid blue. I guess they used to be blue-green when I was first born, but when I grew up they changed to a very electric blue. I look very much like my mom--I have her thin, upturned nose and full lips and round face, but she had green eyes and was very curvy. I'm thin and don't have much curves to speak of. I'm like a B cup.

I open the door and . . . Well. He's not what I expected. I'm not sure what I expected, but . . . I don't know. It's almost like a let-down, or maybe not. Maybe it's just the reality of the situation is hitting me. The man on my trailer porch is my real father, and my mother is dead, and now . . . Now I'm going to live with him.

He's tall--above six foot. He's thin, and he looks like he's shaved his head recently, and he looks . . . old. Well, I knew he must be about fifty since he was around ten years older than my mom, but . . . I don't know. It just strikes me suddenly, how old he is, and that he must think I'm old too because he doesn't know me and yet I'm his daughter, and the first time he sees me I'm an eighteen year old that flunked out of college living in a piece of shit trailer.

I know nothing about him; hell, the fact he has a cane comes as a shock to me. It's obvious that I got my thin and tall genes from him, as well as my blue eyes.

"Are you Jaid?" he asks, looking me over. His face is a mask.

"Yeah."

He nods once. "Well, come on. Pack up your stuff. I'm not your chauffeur." With that, he pushes off my porch and starts heading down the walkway towards his car.

"Rude," I whisper so he doesn't hear, and then I go back into the house.

-----

He doesn't even help me pack. He stays in his car (a Volvo) and closes his eyes, leans his seat back, and blares some Queen. I like Queen, but it's annoying that he doesn't help.

I put the boxes in the trunk (moving aside the space blanket, the tire iron and first aid kit, and other stuff he has in the trunk) and fit what I can in there. I put the rest of the boxes in the backseat, and then I buckle up in the front passenger seat. I have large purse with a white Playboy bunny on the side in my lap, and I swallow.

Everything I didn't pack I sold in a yard sale a few days ago, and donated to some second-hand stores and gave away to some charities. I just packed the essentials--clothes, books, my laptop, DVDs and CDs and my iPod. I never really realized how many clothes I had until I was moving.

"You ready to go?" he says, and he pulls the seat up in normal position.

I shrug. "I guess."

"You sound so very enthused," he mutters, then starts up the engine.

"_Yes, Jaid, I'm so damn enthused to have you spending the rest of your life working fast food! I've lived that life and I don't want you to live it, too! You're a smart girl; why can't you just put forth some fucking effort?"_

I close my eyes. "No, it's just--yeah. Thanks. Thanks for taking me in and all that."

"We're not gonna have a weepy moment are we? Because I don't do that." He's driving away from the curb now; we're going about ten miles an hour.

I swallow the ball in my throat, and I'm not sure if I'm grateful he's not going to drag my sob story out, or offended he would treat my obvious pain like it's nothing. I just don't know what my life has become or what it will be; I don't know the man beside me.

"No. We're not. I just wanted to say thanks . . . Dad," I say, tacking on the title because that's what he is, right?

The car stops so suddenly I choke on the tightening of the seat belt as my body flings forward. It's a good thing we're still in the streets of the trailer park because there isn't other traffic. "Don't you _ever_ call me that," he spits, and I look at him.

His eyes are intense and his face is tight with some sort of expression I can't place. It's scary. I nod. "Right. O-of course. Wh-what should I call you, then?"

He looks at me, then turns to face the windshield. "House."

My first thought is _Well, that's a strange name. House? _which is quickly followed by _Well, at least I don't have to call some stranger 'Dad.'_

After that, silence.


	2. Chapter 2

He lives in a loft.

Okay, I'll admit, it stuns me. This place is _massive._ I'm not talking like a mansion or anything, but it's really big. It has a foyer and two bathrooms; not to mention a huge, spacious living room with amazing furniture (and a random _A Chorus Line_ poster against a wall) and an organ.

He takes me to a guest room where there is nothing but a bed and some blankets. "Here," he says, gesturing with his cane. "Set up your stuff in here."

There are three rooms (that I saw anyway) and the ceilings are high and everything looks so damn pretty. This is coming from a girl who lived in a trailer her whole life, a few towns away. It was only about an hour drive. I wonder if my mom knew he lived in Princeton . . .

I remember her sobbingly asking for a little bit of cash a few months ago over the phone. I wonder if it was him. But how could a partying druggie afford all this? Maybe he sold drugs. I hope not, because that would make life difficult for me. Unlike my mother, I've never done any sort of drugs (except for prescriptions drugs the doctor gave me when I was sick) or drank alcohol. I've never had sex, either. My mom raised me as a Christian and she didn't want me going down the same path as she did.

Maybe I should have gone to school more.

This is horrible, but I've got a problem with attending school. In high school, I barely went to class. I still managed to get A's and B's, but college is a little different. I aced all the tests, but a lot of my professors grade on attendance too, whereas in high school they never seemed to care. Then again, the teachers probably hated it when I did show. I have a problem with mouthing off. College professors seemed to find it funny, or they just ignored me. High school teachers tended to argue and send me to detention.

I feel guilty for screwing up my second semester in college. I just got so tired, you know? Getting up early, taking the bus (we couldn't afford a second car) and having to listen to hoity-toity condescending snobs who think they know everything about everything just because their daddies paid off their tuition? I thought it would be a cakewalk, like the first semester, but I had teachers who actually graded on participation . . . Which I might have known about had I shown up . . .

I'm not stupid. I'm actually pretty smart. I just . . . I don't know. I really don't know.

"_Sometimes, Jaid, you're just so damn lazy I don't know what to do with you! I've worked my ass off every day and you just _fail_ college because what? You were too tired to go? Wanted to go watch movies? What were you doing instead of going to class?"_

"_None of your damn business! It's not like I failed on purpose!"_

I can't believe the last thing my mom and I did together was fight. I know I shouldn't blame myself for the wreck, but . . . Well, maybe if I hadn't been yelling and arguing she would have paid more attention. Maybe she wouldn't have gotten in a wreck.

The truth was, college was boring, and I thought I could pass without going. I was just taking generals in a stupid community college. So, what had I done instead? Slept in a bit, then hopped on the bus all the way to Princeton, after Eve finished her classes.

Eve is my best friend. We'd gone to school together, but she was one of those kids that actually went and never did anything wrong. She didn't mouth off to teachers or anything like that. She got into Princeton (which was sort of like her dream school--except maybe Julliard. She said she would've liked to go but didn't think she was good enough) and so I spent time with her instead of going to class. She was already out of class though since she took mostly morning classes. She has a brother named Mike, but he's a little older than her (he's twenty-two) and I think he wants to be a veterinarian. He's in school right now (Princeton, like her, which may be why she wanted to attend) and they're both really smart.

People used to think they were twins. They look alike.

But this isn't interesting, is it? I've got more important matters to deal with than my best friend and her brother and why I failed college.

I start unpacking, but not because I like to clean or decorate or anything. It's because, well . . . It's either that or going out there with _him._

We didn't talk the whole ride. He listened to music, and I stared out of the window and let some tears drop.

I put my Bible away, and I finger my cross necklace uncomfortably. I say a prayer or two as I clean, asking God to help me get along with my biological father although I don't really see this happening in the near future. Or ever.

It doesn't take long for me to get everything unpacked. I don't have a bookshelf or a dresser, so I put my shirts in the closet with my wire hangers I packed, but keep my pants and skirts in the box. I keep my books in the box too. In fact, almost everything stays in the box, except for my Bible and some of my artwork. I put up some of my pictures along my wall; I used to want to be an artist. I'm actually really good at drawing so I don't know why I didn't pursue that more.

When I leave my room, he's watching TV. It looks like two girls are making out on-screen. It's muted.

"Um, what are you watching?"

"My entire life being crushed and withering away into nothing. You?"

"Was that a reference to me moving in? Because you didn't have to offer me a place."

"_The L Word,"_ he answers belatedly.

I get a little anxious when I see the images on-screen. I finger my cross necklace. He's an Atheist--or at least he was when my mother knew him--so it makes sense he's not uncomfortable watching gay girls. "Anything else on?" I ask.

"Nothing I wanna watch. Come on and sit down next to ol' pappy and watch some quasi-pornographic lesbian drama. Don't worry--it's muted. You won't have to hear them bitch."

The idea of watching a show about gay women (did he say porn?) makes me queasy, so I shake my head, even though I'm behind the couch and he can't see me. "Uh yeah I think I'm gonna pass. So what now?"

"Whaddaya mean, what now?"

"Well I live with you now, don't I? So . . . what now?" Before he can say anything, I hear the door opening. I hear the shuffling of someone taking of a coat; keys jangling. "Does someone else live here?" I ask.

"House?" I hear a man call from the foyer. I hadn't expected to hear a man's voice. "Is someone here?"

"My long lost daughter," he calls.

"Oh, very funny, House," the man calls back, and I can tell he's being sarcastic. I stay in my spot, unsure of what to say or how to react. Why is a man coming into this house? Why does a man possibly live with my father? Maybe they're just friends. Or maybe they were brothers. Eve and Mike live together.

The man walks into the living room and he stops and stares at me. I'm standing behind the couch, behind my father. House. I'm supposed to call him House. Right. I tug on my necklace harder. "Uh . . . Hey?"

"Like I said, long lost daughter," House says.

The man blinks again. He's taller than I am, and broad shouldered, and doesn't really look like House at all so they're probably not brothers. He looks younger than House. The brown sweater vest is over a white button-up and what looks like a yellow tie, and he's wearing khakis. He's got dark brown eyes and short-cropped brown hair. I clear my throat; he's actually really sort of adorable.

"You . . . have his eyes," he sputters, looks to the floor, and rubs his neck. He glances at the back of House's head. I shift uncomfortably. This is awkward. "Um, House? Care to explain?"

"Sometimes, Wilson, when a man and a woman find each other attractive, they take off all their clothes and--"

"I meant, what is she doing in the loft? What's going on? House, I think I deserve to know--this is my loft."

"Our loft."

"Oh my God," I gasp. "Please tell me you're brothers."

"Only in the Philadelphia sense," House retorts.

"House!" Wilson (I think that's what House called him) snaps. "No, we're not brothers. House, did something hap--"

"Are you _gay?" _I demand, clutching my cross necklace, and the idea of living with two fathers--two gay fathers--makes me uneasy, and I wonder if Eve and Mike can afford me living with them.

"Wha--n-no, we're not--we're just--uh-no, we're friends," Wilson (I think) points out, blinking at me. "Why is that every person in this apartment thinks we're--"

"Probably because you like musicals and such. Anyway, that's my daughter. Hope you two get along 'cause she just moved in. I can now claim her on my taxes."

I feel strangely guilty for having my first reaction towards them possibly being gay. Even if they were it wouldn't be right of me to move out and in with Eve and Mike. I clear my throat. "Sorry," I say, as an apology for having that . . . unsatisfactory reaction.

"You're not the first who's assumed," Wilson says, looking at House's head, and completely misunderstanding what I'd meant but oh well, he gave me an out so I don't need to explain further. "I would have liked a warning, House."

"Consider this your warning, then," House responds.

Wilson sighs and then smiles at me convincingly, like he's genuinely happy to see me. He reaches forward to shake my hand. I blink and his expression falter, but then I grab his hand. "I'm James Wilson," he introduces.

His hand is warm and the perfect amount of grip--someone who has shaken a lot of hands, then. I try to match his grip so I don't crush his hand and also so it's not weak. "Um, Jaid Mayberry."

So this is his loft, then? That's what he said. So maybe he's the one who pays for everything.

We let go of each other's hands. I notice there's only two feet of space in between us; it sounds like a lot, but really, it isn't. Not when you're standing next to someone you don't know. I take a step back and blink at him. He smiles. "So, how'd . . . you and House, er . . . meet?" He furrows his eyebrows and rubs the back of his neck, like maybe he thinks what he said was stupid.

"Her mom kicked the bucket." Wow. Harsh.

"House! That was uncalled for."

I clench my jaw and feel burning in my eyes.

"Well she _did_ die."

I'm gone without even remembering walking off. I'm in my room (guest room; whatever) and I'm slamming the door shut. In fact, it's the sound of it hitting the doorframe loudly that makes me realize I've left.

It's all too much suddenly. All of it. My mom dying in my arms, covered in blood, because of me; some stranger who I'm now living with is my father; and now I'm kicked out of college because I didn't show? I'm such an idiot! How is that everything can happen all at once? All of this bad shit had to happen _now?_

There are a few knocks on my door and I wipe away my tears. I hate it when people see me cry. "Who is it?"

There's no answer. I swallow the lump in my throat.

"Um, who is it?"

"It's uh . . ." I don't know their voices enough to tell them apart so it could be either of them. "James," he finishes. "May I come in?"

I don't know him. I don't know . . . _House._ I don't really want to talk to anyone, but . . . Well, if I sit around an mope all day and refuse to talk, I'll never know them and I sort of have to, right? I mean, my mother pushed House away (for good reason) so it's not like he drop-kicked her to the curb and left. It's not his fault.

Well it is in a roundabout way since he did drugs and all that, but . . .

That's not James' fault.

"Yeah, sure."

The door opens and even though I'm not looking at him but at the opposite wall and he hasn't said anything, I suddenly regret it and wish I could I would've told him to bug off or something.

"Jaid?" He doesn't ask me to turn around. I flinch, expecting him to touch my shoulder, but he doesn't. "I have no way of knowing what you're going through; I've never dealt with a family member's . . . death. And what House said . . . Well. It was uncalled for. I just . . . Are you okay?"

Not really, no. How can I be okay? My life is spiralling into shit.

I'm clutching my necklace so hard it's starting to hurt my palm.

"I'm fine," I say dully, staring at my wall, my vision blurry.

"Death is a very difficult thing to process; especially when you're so young. To have something so . . . Important brushed aside . . . I can understand if you feel angry."

"My mom is dead," I tell him, my words heavy.

This time I do feel his shoulder on my arm; soft and tentative. He doesn't say anything; like maybe he's testing the waters. "House . . . He doesn't like emotional topics. Since you're going to be here for awhile, you should probably know that."

Well, nobody really likes emotional topics, do they? Most people suffer through them; tolerate them. I know I get uncomfortable when someone starts crying or bitching about their life. But to seriously just . .. Act like, oh, well, whatever? That's just . . . screwed up.

I take a step forward and away from him so he's not touching my shoulder anymore.

"I'm . . . done discussing this," I tell him.

He doesn't say anything, but a second later I hear my door shut, and I stand there, staring at my new room in my new house.

It doesn't make me feel grateful or happy, like it probably should. I just feel lost.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for all the reviews! Just wanted to say I'm sorry if House comes off as mean, but I just don't think he would suddenly be nice to Jaid, even if she is his daughter. Also, I'm not pushing Christianity--I just thought House being an Atheist and Jaid being Christian would be an interesting dynamic. **

Maybe it was antisocial of me, but I spent the rest of the night in my room. James did knock on the door to tell me there was food and I left to eat with them. James did try to start conversation with me (I have no idea why House insists on calling him by his last name) several times but I wasn't in the mood to talk. I'm sure I came off as a bitch, but . . . I don't know I guess I felt uncomfortable. I don't even know these people and even though he was being nice, I just couldn't think of anything to say. House and him eventually held up their own conversation as if I hadn't even been there. I didn't mind. I actually preferred it.

After that I went into my room and read a book.

I must've fallen asleep reading because now James is shaking my shoulder and I'm blinking up at him. My light's on and it's blinding me. "Wha . . . ?" I sleepily mumble.

"House insists I take you with us to work."

"What?" That's actually more coherent. I glance at my alarm clock (which at this point is just for decoration--I don't need to wake up for anything.)

"House says you need to come with us."

"House can eat shit for all I care," I grumble, then stick my face in my pillow, tossing my book to the floor.

James snorts back a chuckle and I groan at the noise. I want to sleep. "I'm sure he returns the sentiment. I have waffles already made for you. Come on." He gently shakes my shoulder.

I swat at his arm. "I'm not getting up," I tell him.

He leaves the room and I sigh into my pillow. Much easier to get rid of him than I thought.

Of course then the door bursts open and the blankets is whipped off of me a second later. I gasp and curl up in the fetal position. I feel a jab in my ribs and I open my eyes, hair obscuring my vision. Strands of my hair are in my mouth.

House poked me with his cane.

"What in the _hell_ is your _problem?"_ I snap.

"You think I'm going to let some strange girl have free roam of my home? I don't know you. For all I know you could take all my stuff and hock it for cash. So get up and get dressed."

"Make me," I growl.

His smile reminded me of a shark's. "You think I won't? I'll drag your ass kicking and screaming the whole way there if I have to."

"Your leg isn't strong enough," I snap.

"I have morphine," he brushes off with a hand wave. "I could sedate you."

I almost ask if he really has morphine, but then I eye his cane, remember what my mom said about him doing drugs, and figure he probably does. Either James pays off this house by himself or House is a drug dealer that gets money from that.

"What exactly is your job, anyway?" I ask tentatively, pushing myself into a sitting position.

"I'm a doctor," he says, then eyes me. "Hurry up. You're one needle prick away from being a rag doll."

"I'm serious. What's your job?" I ask, getting on my feet and stretching.

"Circus clown. Now get ready." He leaves.

I narrow my eyes. Circus clown? Yeah, right. Why won't he just tell me what he is? Is it embarrassing? Maybe he is a circus clown. I wish my mother would've told me more about him other tha nteh fact he was a druggie Atheist who parties.

I get out of yesterday's clothes and get into a pink flow-y skirt that ends just after my knees and a white snug shirt. I put on the first shoes I see--tan boots--and grab a brush out of my bathroom bag. I comb through my hair in front of the mirror I put on my wall. It doesn't take long because my hair is only to my jaw line and straight, so after that I quickly apply some lip gloss and mascara. I brush a little pink shadow over my eyelids.

I leave the room and go to the dining table where there is already a plate with waffles and a glass of milk. "At least I know you got your morning genes from me," House says when I sit down beside him.

"Are you really a circus clown?"

"No," James says at the same time House goes; "Yes."

I know House is my biological father, but I trust James more (not that I trust him all that much to begin with) and turn to him. "What does he do? What do you do, even?"

"We're doctors," James says.

Well now I just feel like a jackass. I feel my cheeks burn slightly and I look at my waffles. "Oh," I reply, tilting my head down so my hair obscures my face. This is awkward. "My mom said you were a partying, druggie Atheist," I mutter, with a brief glance at House.

"One who also happens to be a doctor. Pass the butter."

I blink at him, then push the butter across the table towards him. He uses the butter knife and slaps it on the waffle sloppily. "My mom didn't want to get involved with you because she thought you were a squatter," I state, staring at him with wide eyes.

"And I didn't want to get involved with her because she was a judgemental, naive Christian who assumed I didn't have a job because I didn't live up to her precious Saviour's standards."

I clutch my cross necklace and squeeze it. "You're a dick," I snap. Maybe it's unfair of me to growl at him but the whole reason I didn't have a dad was because she thought he was a loser; had she known he was a doctor, maybe she would've stayed with him. Maybe we would've been living in a loft instead of in a shitty trailer.

"Why? Because I never told your mother? I let her believe what she wanted to. I gave her money when she asked, and stayed out of your life like she wanted."

"If you would've told her you were a doctor--"

"She would've married me for my career and hounded me every four minutes to see you. She didn't love me. She loved my cock, my pianist fingers, and she would've loved my big, fat doctor salary too if she'd known about it. She knew I lived in Princeton and didn't stop by to see how my life was going. Just moved close enough to ask for a hundred bucks here and there and pick it up at some diner where nobody would recognize her. Quit clutching at your necklace; it'll break off. Or better yet, keep clutching. Crosses annoy me."

Now that he mentioned it my palm was sore so I pulled my hand free and stared at my plate, seething. What did he know of my life? He doesn't even know my mother--well, _didn't._ Yet he has some nerve to try and judge what type of person she was?

Then again, maybe I was just as bad. I didn't know him and I assumed he was a drug pusher.

I eat my waffles and smile politely at James whenever he speaks, but I don't really listen to what he says.

-----

"Oh, well that makes sense," I say when I see the glass door with my father's name on it. House is his last name; his first name is Greg. I felt a bit like an idiot for thinking his first name was House now, but that is what he told me to call him. I wonder why he doesn't like being called by his first.

He grabs my arm roughly and steers me into the room beside it; it's a conference room with a whiteboard and some other doctors waiting inside.

"Who's that?" a black guy asks, looking me over quickly.

"Jaid Mayberry. Sit and be quiet." He pushes me in the direction of an empty chair; not violently, though.

I sit next to a blonde guy with really blue eyes. He smiles at me. "Any relation to the patient?" he asks, and he has an accent. British, I think . . . I've always been horrible with accents. Maybe Australian.

"Not to the patient," House (Greg) says, and I frown. Is he ashamed? "Any new developments?"

"House . . . We can't carry on a differential with some sixteen-year-old girl in here," a woman with brown hair points out.

"Eighteen," I correct.

"We can if she is sprung from these loins," he replies with an obvious gesture at his crotch, and I blush and look at the table. He faces the white board, which has words scribbled across it. He hangs his cane on the board and I can feel the blonde British/Australian guy staring at me. Maybe if he talks a little more I can place the accent.

"Seriously, House," the black guy says, raising an eyebrow at my father.

"Seriously, Foreman," he retaliates mockingly.

"You expect us to believe she's your daughter?" a balding guy with a somewhat larger nose asks.

Why is it so hard to believe we're related? Well, I don't really look like him--I'm thin, tall, and have blue eyes. Hell, the guy with the accent next to me looks more like me than House does.

"I expect you to do your jobs and figure out what our patient is dying of," he orders, eyes sweeping the room. "Yes, she is my daughter. Now, come on, duckies, what causes a man's platelets to be at six-thousand and a liver the size of Kansas?"

"I still think it could be autoimmune," the only woman states, eyeing me suspiciously as if I've said something strange.

"Something that isn't completely moronic." House glares at her. "And stop checking her out. I'll have you know that's against her religion."

"I wasn't checking her out," she states, and I feel uncomfortable.

"Um . . . Maybe he's an alcoholic?" I offer, just because it's awkwardly quiet and I feel uneasy.

"Oh, bravo, Jaid," House says, glaring at me. "Yes, a man comes in with an enlarged liver and a platelet count higher than Christian Slater and we didn't think that maybe he's an alcoholic. I told you to be quiet."

"_Bravo, Jaid," mother snaps as she presses down on the gas. "You've managed to disappoint me yet again!"_

"_Well maybe if I had a better mother who didn't screw her life up so much--"_

I clench my teeth and push out of the chair. We have a short staring contest (I lose) and I storm out of the conference room, my skirt swishing around my knees, and I storm down the hallway to the elevator.

This is ridiculous. He forces me to come to his work, sits me in his stupid conference room, and belittles me in front of people I don't even know? Screw this--I'm going to Eve and Mike's place. They'll take me in. I'll just move in with them and never think of Greg House again.

WHAM!

My boots, though stylish, have crappy traction and so my feet slip underneath me and I fall on my ass. I look up to see James, who is staring down at me like he's never seen me before (which is ridiculous since he drove me here and we went out separate ways like a minute ago) and then he offers his hand. I grab it and he helps me up.

"Wilson!" House shouts from behind me and I glare at him over my shoulder. He's leaning out of the door. "Make sure she doesn't take her hissy fit elsewhere! She keys the Volvo, I'm blaming you!"

I open my mouth to shout something back at him, but Wilson grabs my arm and steers me away. He leads me to his office (apparently he's the head of oncology) and the door shuts behind us. I break away from him and step away, folding my arms and staring out his glass door which leads to a balcony.

"What did he do?"

"He's just a dick," I snap.

"That's not what I asked."

I tap my boot against his carpet. "I suggested maybe his patient was an alcoholic."

"And he cut you down." I nod. "Jaid, sit down," he asks calmly, and I let out a sigh and do as he says. I cross one ankle behind the other and fold my arms, my lips pursed. James stands in front of me and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Jaid--you're not a doctor. And House, well . . . He only takes _certain _cases. Cases that are . . . rare; difficult to diagnose. If it's easy, he feels it's . . . a waste of his time. I understand that you want to impress him, but--"

"I don't want to impress anyone," I interrupt. "I could care less what he thinks."

"Then why'd you try to help?" he asks, and there's a knowing little gleam in his chocolate-brown eyes.

I don't know why, but it certainly wasn't to impress him. He hasn't shown a scrap of interest in my well-being since he picked me up last night. Why should I care? My eyes burn and my bottom lip starts trembling. I don't care what he thinks about me.

I sniff and I feel wetness on my cheeks.

Maybe I wanted to impress him _a little._

James wipes away some tears from my cheek with his thumb and smiles wanly. "Why don't you get some sleep? You can lie down on the couch. Here." He takes off his long coat and hands it to me. "This can be your blanket. I'll come check on you every now and again, okay?"

"What--" My voice breaks with the tears and I clear my throat, wiping away more wetness. "What should I do when I wake up?"

"House will probably be in his office. Maybe you can try and talk with him?" he suggests. I really don't feel like talking to him, but I nod anyway.

"I'll be doing rounds," he says, but I really don't know what that means so I don't know how that helps me any. He pats my shoulder. "Have a nice rest, Jaid."

He leaves his office and I lay down, pulling his coat over me and closing my eyes.

His coat smells really nice.

A/N--yes, I know Chase is Australian, but not everyone can tell the difference with accents super-easy. Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the long update. Real life stuff. Icky. But anyhoo, here is the next chapter and I hope I don't offend anyone but I'm trying to show Jaid's conflict with life and confusion. Also, I'll admit I haven't really planned a lot of this story out . . .**

I happen to wake up moments before the door opens. Or maybe I woke up after. Or maybe I'd been awake for awhile but just really aware of it. You know how sleep is strange sometimes. Anyway my recollection of it is that I woke up moments before the doorknob turned with a squeak and some woman walked in. She is pretty, I guess. She has really blue eyes, like my . . . father, and like me. She is wearing a low-cut shirt but I wouldn't say it's slutty or anything.

I sit up and James' coat drops to my lap. I'm sure I look all tired with my hair all up in tufts and my eyes are half closed.

"Oh," the woman says, blinking at me. She purses her lips. "I see."

"Huh?" I say.

"Where's Wilson?" she demands.

"You mean James? I dunno, he said he was gonna do rounds."

She puts her hand on her forehead. "He should be done by now," she groans. "How long has this been going on?"

I look at the clock. "Um, about two hours, I guess."

She sighs. "You know what I meant. And how old are you? Sixteen?"

"I'm eighteen, thank you," I snap, glaring at her.

"He knows better than this," she mutters.

This is when James walks in the office. "Hey, Cuddy," he greets cutely and he smiles at me. "And how did you rest? Well, I hope?"

"Yes, thank you," I say politely, then hand him his coat. He takes it.

"Wilson, you can't be having sex with barely-legal girls on hospital grounds!"

"What? Why would you assume I had sex with her? She was just resting here."

Cuddy blinks and then she blushes. "I'm sorry. I just . . . Well, she has sex hair and she's in your office with your coat . . . I apologize for making such a hasty, er . . . for jumping to conclusions." She rubs her forehead. "I've just been . . Lucas has been strange lately and he wouldn't take no for an answer--I got to work late and Rachel was crying all night . . ." She sighs then smiles at him, and it looks fake. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken all that out on you."

James reaches forward and puts his hand on her shoulder and I feel a weird pang in my chest that I can't explain. "It's okay, Lisa. Jaid here was . . . Well, she needed to rest a bit. She's been having a hard time lately--her mother died and she's . . . unsure of how she gets along with her biological father."

Cuddy, or Lisa, looks between us. "Oh, is she--? I mean, is she your daughter?"

"No," we both say at the same time and Lisa Cuddy looks at me in confusion. "Um, House is my dad," I explain with a little shrug.

Her eyes widen and it looks like they sparkle. "House has a kid?" she whispers in awe, and that's when House--speak of the devil--bursts into James' office.

"Wilson, you'll never guess what--" He sees me on James' couch. His gleeful face changes into disgust and then anger in the matter of seconds. "Wilson!" he spits, then grabs his arm. "You _slept_ with my _kid?"_

"No!" Wilson exclaims. God, why is everyone assuming I slept with James? I mean, hello, I'm a Christian! Well maybe they don't know that and my hair is kinda messy and I was in his office with his coat draped over me and he is kinda cute, so . . . I mean, not that I would ever had pre-marital sex or anything outrageous like that. "She was just resting! House, she's had a hard time lately and--well ,she was upset this morning, so I let her rest on my couch. I let you sleep on it all the time!"

House glared at him disbelievingly, then finally stepped away and looked at me. "Jaid? Did you two have sex?" he asks, staring at me studiously.

"What? No!" I exclaim, almost in disgust. When I realize how disgusted I'd sounded, I blinked. "I mean . . . no offence to you, James, of course I'm just . . . You know. A virgin."

"Saving yourself for marriage, then?" House mocks with a lip curl but instead of mocking me he's looking at James. When I nod, House scoffs. "Well, it won't be too long then."

"House!" Lisa (Cuddy? What should I call her?) reprimands with a glare in his direction.

House grabs James by the arm and leads him to this glass door that leads into a balcony. Lisa leaves, rubbing her temples. I sit on the couch awkwardly for a few seconds but then I get curious, so I move as close to the balcony door as I can and listen carefully.

". . . your type! Her mother died and she's living with people she doesn't know! She's been kicked out of college and dependent--"

"Here we go again, House--I'm not going to date her. I'm really not as addicted to needy women as you think."

"I swear, Wilson, if you date her--"

"House! She's eighteen!"

"She's needy!"

That's where I stopped listening. I stood away from the door and charged out of his office, lips pursed together. How dare he? How dare he sit around and discuss my 'love life' behind my back wit ha man I barely met and don't even know? And what's all this crap about me being needy? House doesn't even know me! He's sitting around making assumptions about me needing people, about being some needy, clingy, dependent person . . . Well, I'm having enough of this.

I've only known him for a day and he's already saying shit behind my back--making assumptions about someone he doesn't know--pulling his friend aside and telling him how to run his life . . . I mean, not that I would date James or anything but even if we do one day (highly unlikely) what concern is it of House's? he didn't raise me and the guy said he had no intention! And I'm not needy!

I leave Wilson's office and I see the woman on House's team--if House said her name I don't remember--and I walk past her, my shoulder knocking hers accidentally, and I start towards the elevator. I pound the call button and then she's next to me.

"Not having a good day?" she asks and she has an almost-smile on her face.

"Like you would know," I mutter and punch the button repeatedly.

"I work with House daily. I think I know how much of an ass he can be."

"Yeah well I just heard him telling James not to date me and then called his own daughter, which he's never attempted to get to know, by the way, a dependent, needy . . . I don't know, slut! They all just assumed I was going to have sex with some old guy I don't even know!"

"It wasn't you they were assuming was a slut," she tells me and sorta grimaces. "Wilson--well, James--he . . . Does have a reputation for being a ladies man and he does tend to . . . end up dating women he tries to help out of bad situations. Your mother dying and you being shipped off to live with a man you don't know after being kicked out of college? That's a bad situation."

I purse my lips. "Still, I just . . . I don't think this is going to work. Me and House."

"Jaid," she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. "Look, you're young an--"

"Oh, so what, that means I'm juvenile?" I snap, jerking my shoulder out of her grasp.

"No, I didn't say that," she says a bit tersely and pulls her hands back, palms outwards like in a surrender. "I'm just saying that . . . The House I know wouldn't have ever brought in a young girl he didn't know. And he's taking care of you."

The elevator door dings open and I step inside. She follows and I clench my jaw. "I'm not running away," I whisper harshly as I press the ground floor. "I haven't talked to my best friend since before my mom died. I think she deserves to know what's going on in my life."

I felt her hand on my shoulder and she smiled at me. "I can drive you there. But you know I'm going to tell House where I took you, right?" I purse my lips. That means that if I do decide to screw this whole living with my biological father thing, then I can't just disappear. He'll know where I am. "Look . . . I understand that this must be difficult for you, but . . . Things look tough now. Where do you have to go if you just leave without giving this a chance?"

"Eve and Mike's," I answer habitually.

"People your age. Jaid, did you once consider that they may not be able to afford a third person who doesn't have a job and isn't going to college? They're probably no more financially sound than you are. It would be selfish of you to force that on them when someone is willingly offering you a place to--"

"He's not willingly doing anything! He _has_ to! My mom put him as the emergency contact when my grandparents died and--"

"I know House a lot more than you do," she interrupts a hit harshly. "Trust me, he doesn't do _anything_ against his will. You're an adult, Jaid. He very easily could've left you to your own devices. _He didn't."_

I don't' understand why they think that's some sort of big deal--House taking me in. I'm his daughter--of course he'd feel obligated. Btu the way they talk about it, it's like human beings actually helping another out is unheard of. I nod as the elevator car comes to a halt.

"Okay," I whisper. "But . . . I think I just need to take a break for minute."

She smiles. "Okay. I'll drive you there."

"What's your name, by the way?" I asked as she brushes her brunette hair out of her luminescent eyes. She's really pretty.

"Remy, but just call me Thirteen. It's . . . simpler."

I don't understand how a number is simpler but then again, my own dad wants me to call him by his last name, so . . .

Eve is eighteen, like me, but almost my exact opposite. Whereas I mouth off and often speak without thinking, she's generally quiet and reserved and never does anything wrong. She has long black hair and dark eyes and pale skin. She's a bit curvier than I am, too, which isn't hard since I'm very thin and petite.

Her brother Mike is four years older than she is and although he's kind of reclusive and doesn't talk much, he's blunt and a lot of people don't' like him ,but I guess he's all right. He kinda looks like Eve, but a boy, obviously.

Eve and Mike live together in a very small apartment. The bathroom is small, like a closet, and it only has a shower, and it only has one room. The sleep on opposite sides with a little divider down the middle and they just have mattresses on the floor and share a closet.. The living room and kitchen are separated only by a counter, and I can hear the dull tones of other people's conversation. They live on the very bottom, so I can hear every body walking above us, too.

The trailer I lived in with my mom is bigger and better than this place. And leaving House's loft and going into this? Yeesh. I see Remy's--uh, well, Thirteen's point.

She sitting on their one couch and I'm sitting in between her knees. She combs my hair. "You have such beautiful hair," she says and I sigh.

"Guess I got that from mom."

"Your dad has bad hair?" she genuinely asks, pulling a comb through my strands.

"Well he's kinda bald. Like he shaved it awhile ago. It's like brown, but it has a lot of grey in it. But not like . . . Steve Martin grey or anything." She hums and slowly slides the com through my hair and it tugs gently on my scalp. Not in a bad way. "I have his eyes, though. And his figure."

She hums and then all is quiet as she brushes my hair. Mike walks in and sees us, then sits on the opposite end of the couch and plugs in his laptop. He's watching us intently, black eyes unmoving, and he slowly types although he never looks at the screen. Just at us.

"What are you up to, Mike?" I ask.

"You mother died and this I the first we've heard about it?" He doesn't sound happy. My cheeks burn and I clench my teeth. I do not have the patience to deal with this today.

"Mike, she's going through a hard time right now. We can't be selfish."

"No, but I would've liked to have paid my respects to the funeral. I might be an Atheist but I'm not a soulless creep."

Mike and I get along pretty well, but we clash on a few things. Like religion. But that's beside the point. "I'm sorry but I was a little freaked out, okay? My mom died and I've been shipped off to my dad who've I've never met. Excuse me if I wasn't thinking straight for a moment. God."

He blinks and he opens his mouth, the nods, and turns back to his laptop and starts typing.

"Don't mind him. He's just on his period," Even whispers and I snort back a chuckle. "I'd like to meet your father, though."

I grimace. "Probably not best, Eve. He's . . . weird. And he's living with this guy and they're just kinda-well. Everything's kinda weird right now. Maybe some other time."

She hums again and continues brushing my hair, and Mike snickers at something he read and I peer over at him. He glances at me and sighs. "Some girl I talk to online," he explains, then turns back to the screen and types furiously.

We sit in silence, the TV on a low volume, while Eve continues to come my hair. After awhile she put the brush on the floor beside me and I stare at the television and think of how often I've spent my time here, listening to Mike clack away on his laptop and talking with Eve.

"So he lives with another guy?" Mike asks. "How old are they?"

"Well House is fifty and James I . . . I dunno. Younger than that. Over thirty-five, I imagine."

"They're both doctors?" He asks, then smiles at the screen.

"Yeah. I thought they were gay but thank God that they weren't. I dunno if I could live with two gay guys," I say.

Have you ever had that moment where you realize the second after you say something you shouldn't have said it? Yeah. This is what I'm going through now.

Eve gets off the couch and heads towards her room, slamming it shut. Mike glares at me. "Why's that? Because your precious Bible--"

"Don't start on me, Mike."

"Give me one good reason, without using the Bible, why you have _any_ excuse to disallow homosexuals happiness? Or judge two men who willingly take you into their home because they might like the same gender?"

"The Bible trumps everything, Mike."

"You know, I think it's time you go home to your two daddies."

"They're not gay, Mike. And . . . I have no way of getting there. I don't even know where 'there' is."

He purses his lisp and closes his eyes, types something quickly, then looks at me. "You were seriously going to leave them, despite everything they just did for a total stranger, because you thought they might be gay?"

I shift uncomfortably. Well, when he puts it like _that . . ._

"I don't know, Mike," I mutter. "I don't know."


End file.
